Aim & Ignite
by mortui vivos docent
Summary: Murdoc has never been normal. He knew that because of the way he was raised. Will he change for 2D? Has he ever really tried?  Don't worry, there's sex in later chapters. Longer summary inside.


**A/N: The idea of this story struck me when I was listening to the band Fun.'s album _Aim and Ignite._ Each chapter will be based off of the song in consecutive order of the album. The first chapter is vaguely represented by Be Calm **(listen here - youtube(dot)com/watch?v=7qMXBUjm8tM&ob=av2n )

**Un-beta'd, but I'm pretty anal about grammar and spelling and punctuation and all that jazz, especially in fanfiction.**

**First Gorillaz fic I've written, so forgive me if it isn't anything special.**

**Slow at the beginning, but gets better, trust me.**

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><p>He was quite the character. From his green skin, his black hair, his sharp teeth, to his ridiculously long tongue. He was unique, in every sense of the word.<p>

His name was Murdoc Niccals. Asshole, manwhore, scum; he sometimes called himself. To this day, no one has told him otherwise. For every breath he takes, every time he blinks, he breaks a heart.

Murdoc had a way of using his unpleasantries to his benefit. Raspy voice? Girls liked that sort of thing. Makes it easier to talk them into it. In fact, that was what won the last girl – what was her name? Did it really matter? – over. Said his voice gave her chills. Alcohol dependence? Oh, but he's so fun when he's drunk, you should try this, it's delicious, oh he would love some drinks, there's a bedroom upstairs, luv, no, let him carry you, you can hardly stand straight.

At request, Murdoc could list all of the tricks he used to snatch a good shag. They weren't fool-proof, but boy, where those girls fools. Not that he was complaining.

He was Mr. Cool, the heartbreaker. Practiced, good with his hands (he _did_ play bass, after all), long tongue that could work wonders, or so he was told. Murdoc got whatever wanted no matter who he had to step on to get there.

That was his old school, in his old town. He now lived in London, far away from classless, shameless girls like that. That was the only thing he was mourning over in his migration.

Other good things came with leaving home. His satan-forsaken father, for example, was far away from his mother and himself. That was something to celebrate.

His father was a wretched man. He was a violent tyrant. He threw tantrums whenever things didn't go his way. He was violent. Murdoc couldn't even remember all of the times his father had abused him and his innocent mother.

The worst account of his father's temper, in his opinion, was the night his mother had quit her job.

"_You stupid little slut…" My father growled, his fists clenched so tight that I could see his knuckles turning white as the skin was stretched taught against the bone. His teeth were grit together, and his face was red with anger. If it were possible, he would have had steam floating out of his ears._

_My poor mother was cowering in her uncomfortable seat at the dinner table. She had fear in her eyes, the worry lines on her forehead making her look much older than she was. She wasn't looking at the man who was standing over her, just poking her too-powdery instant mashed potatoes with her spoon. She pushed them back and forth across her plate. I saw her gulp in anxiety._

_I understood why she didn't look him in the eyes. The look he was giving her was enough to make my bones rattle in my skin. She was waiting for him to hit her, but no blow came forth. Instead, the cruel man just laughed sinisterly. It sickened me that he earned so much pleasure in seeing her in such a state._

"_You think I wouldn't find out about you bailing? You think I was that _stupid_?" My father spat, venom dripping from each word that came from his mouth._

_With a flinch, my mother closed her eyes. Her teeth were grit as well, but when she looked up at my father, her eyes shone with tears that threatened to fall._

"_I was going to tell you—"_

_Her quiet, mouse-like voice was cut off. _

_Because my father slapped her face with the back of his hand._

_Hard._

_So hard that the impact sent her to the floor, falling in a crumpled heap that landed with a limp _thump.

_As if on cue, my brother walked through the front door, just getting home from his job down at the factory._

_When he saw the state of my mother, my father's wildly malicious grin, the way I was frozen to my seat, he dropped his things and ran into the kitchen. He always was the one to save mom when my father got into a drunken frenzy, even though he kept the beast's trust by joining in beating me._

"_Don't touch her!" My brother yelled at my father, worry and anger in his eyes. My mother was silently crying, her glassy, hopeless eyes staring at me from her undignified place on the floor. I couldn't move, I couldn't help. I could hardly breathe; I just stared back._

"_She's my wife and I'll do what I sodding want, you ungrateful little twat!" My father raised his fist at my brother and I bolted. Out of the kitchen, out of that house, out of hell._

_I ran down my street, far away from that damned place. I didn't stop running until I tripped over my own feet. I fell, scraping my hands and knees. I watched the blood start prickling from my skin, streaking dark red lines down my skin and onto the hot gray pavement below. I sat there in the road for hours, staring at the blood that slowly dried on my hands._

_The day was too bright, the sky was too clear. The sun beat down on my face while a storm brewed inside my body. In movies, it would be raining. But it wasn't. Today was beautiful. Like most beautiful things, it was wasted. The blood that had caked my hands had gone from a brilliant, blooming crimson to a mucky, dried brown. _

_That was the last time I saw my brother._

_That was the last time anything was beautiful. The world had turned ugly, right before my eyes._

Murdoc sat on the floor in his new house. There were countless boxes piled up around him. His eyes kept wandering to the box marked "MEMORIAL". He didn't want to open it. He wanted to burn it. Wanted to bathe in the ashes. He was sick. He was still in mourning.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, redirecting Murdoc's attention to the outside world.

He lived in the middle of a cul-de-sac. The neighborhood was happy, full of smiley children and brightly colored houses. Murdoc found it hard to think of as an improvement. His mother found the place to be perfect. She brightened as soon as they pulled in the driveway. That was the first time she had smiled in months. This was her own little slice of heaven.

The future, a brighter one, was exploding in her eyes. The possibilities were endless.

For Murdoc, his life had ended. Instead of starting over, he had died and arrived at Limbo; he didn't want to be there, but he couldn't leave.

The simplicity of the city only reminded him that he wasn't normal. A boy like him never could be.

Murdoc was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of a key unlocking his front door. His mother walked into the house, much to his relief. She had a big smile on her face, causing her eyes to squint and her high cheekbones to look even more prominent than usual. She looked less like a lifeless skeleton when she smiled.

"Murdoc! I found a job down at the hospital just outside of town It's non-profit, but it pays enough to get us by," his mother had started to take off her coat, "there's a woman that works there who has a son your age. She said he likes the same stuff you do—"

"I'm going out." Murdoc interrupted her. He grabbed his cigarettes and ignored her when she told him to quit, for the millionth time. She tried to convince him to stay, but he wasn't having it. He walked out the door without a second glance, lighting a fag just to spite her.

The warm air and the relief of nicotine calmed him down immediately. It was still summer, and the sun was still burning hot, but there was a humid breeze. Murdoc walked in the middle of the active street. He was going to a gas station he'd seen down the road. He had a couple Euros in his pocket, and his stomach had been growling at him all day.

Processed food was better than none at all.

A bell _ding_ed as Murdoc opened the door, a blast of cool air from the BP blowing his razor-sharp bangs back.

He inwardly sighed as the sheen of sweat he had accumulated from the walk there cooled on his skin. It brightened his mood in a way the addictive cigarette couldn't. He savored the breeze a minute longer before browsing the aisles.

Junk, junk, junk. Murdoc picked up a bag of chips, only to throw it down on the ground. He scanned the shelves of every aisle, but all for naught. Nothing struck his fancy.

The faint smell of coffee wafted over to Murdoc. He could practically taste the bitter liquid. He followed the scent, only to be surprised by a shock of blue hair behind the cash register.

The Satanist also noticed the coffee sitting on the counter. It was steaming, and the bluenette tried to take a sip, but was greeted with a scolded tongue. The sight made Murdoc grin.

He walked up to the front of the store, eyeing the caffeinated drink. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on the marble of the counter, a wide grin showing off his pointed teeth.

"Where'd you get that coffee, luv?" He asked the cashier.

The bluenette flipped her long hair out of her light blue eyes that were caked with heavy eyeliner. If Murdoc had to guess, she was imitating something she saw in a fashion magazine. Her BP-logo polo was tucked into her light khakis, suspenders clipped to the seam of her pants. She wore black, thick-rimmed glasses that lacked lenses. Her shoes reminded him of 80's tap-dance shoes.

_Damn hipsters_, Murdoc thought.

She smiled, "over at the coffee station, sir." A fake fingernail pointed to a metal cart covered in coffee creamers, pots of black coffee, and various sugars.

Murdoc walked over and grabbed a flimsy paper cup, then poured the dark drink into it. He didn't need any creamer or sugar, he'd drink it black like a man. Bitter, like his soul.

Although Murdoc would never admit it, his father had greatly affected the way he saw life. He couldn't do a simple thing like getting coffee without feeling like he needed to prove himself. It disgusted him, but he couldn't help it; it was how he was raised.

The coffee was starting to get colder. Murdoc knew he had been spacing out for a while. He could feel the cashier's stare in the back of his mind's eye.

He sighed irritably as if it were someone else's fault he was zoning in public like that, and skulked up to the cash register. He subtly glanced at the girl's nametag.

"What'll it be, Margaret?"

"Three ninety-nine, Mr. Niccals." Murdoc's rasp stood out to even him in comparison to her smooth soprano voice.

Something struck him as being odd. "How did you know my name?" Murdoc thought he was fairly new here, certainly new enough that no one knew his name.

"You're the talk of the town," Margaret explained simply, shrugging. The top button on her collar popped loose. Murdoc focused on that when she spoke again, "if I were you, I would find some good friends in this town before the bad friends find you."

Murdoc wasn't sure what she meant by that. It was unsettling how her bright eyes darkened when she said it. He just nodded, not sure what to say.

"Oh, and Murdoc?" Margaret called as he was walking out the door. He turned, acknowledging that he was listening.

"Call me Margie."

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><p><strong>AN: Also, Margie isn't an OC, well not really. No matter what she is, she isn't going to be paired with Murdoc or 2D. I just made her (and two other characters that will be introduced in the next chapter) so Murdoc had a constant that wasn't 2D. Murdoc himself once said it's very rare that someone is changed by a single person, and I want this to be as realistic as possible.**


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